


Impure Thoughts

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Drug Use, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sole Survivor and Hancock are good friends. Good friends with an amazing chemistry and enough impure thoughts between the two to fill out an entire issue of Publick Occurences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impure Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Every pairing needs a First Time story so here you go. My New Years resolution is more m!ss/John Hancock.

“I’d had my doubts when we first hit the road.”

“Doubts?”

Hancock snorts, leaning back into the comfort of the Old State House couches, his feet propped up on the coffee table between the various drugs and paraphernalia, the grinders and razor blades and empty needles. “You kiddin’ me? You looked like you’d fallen out of the Vault that day.”

Sole looks up from the belt he’s trying to tie tight around his forearm, incredulous, then back down. “Bullshit.”

“Heh, I thought I’d see you pickin’ your teeth out of the gutter by sun up. Those,” He grins, taps his own teeth, “Pearly white Vault-Tec sponsored teeth.”

Sole glances at him, snorts, and then turns back to his trying to onehandedly tighten the belt once more. It’s the one Hancock uses, so holes have been carved all of the way down to tighten instead of having to twist the thick leather around. Hancock wets his lips, keeps talking: “It’s just real rare these days, find someone who’s not just willing to take things the way they’re handed to them. Look at what happened to Diamond City. Before McDonough took over, it was a half-decent place to live.” He pauses, becoming distracted himself with Sole’s fumbled fiddling, so he stands from the couch opposite of the table, and circles around to the one Sole is seated at. He sits next to him and he leans in to push his hands away and tighten the band himself, adding as an almost aside, “A little stricter than I go for, but not terrible. I thought he and I had a pretty happy childhood—“

That finally gets Sole to pay attention: “Wait. You were—“

“Oh yeah,” Hancock says lightly, “Guy’s my brother. Grew up together in a little shack on the waterfront. Guy was the standard big brother—entitled, punchy, like to shove rotten tatoes down my shirt and slap my back.”

He gives the belt one last tug, until Sole hisses, and then he’s tapping his arm, searching out a vein. His tone is too conversational and light for having dropped a revelation as heavy as that into Sole’s lap. “It’s so easy to find a smoothskin vein. Could have gotten you without the belt.”

Sole tries to hold still, the rough pads of Hancock’s fingers scratching against his skin. “Yeah, yeah, sure—what happened to Diamond City?”

“Oh–“ Hancock laughs a little, “Right. But then he decides he’s gonna try and get elected with his anti-ghoul crusade – ‘Mankind for McDonough’.” He says the title with a sort of mocking, baritone swagger that, without the radiation scratch to his voice, Sole could almost hear as similar. “Before ya know it, you got families with kids lining up to drag folks they called ‘neighbor’ out of their homes and throw ‘em to the ruins.”

Sole blanches. “Christ, that’s… wow. That’s some secret police shit.”

The reference is lost on Hancock. “Well, not secret. He did it in full daylight. That’s the scary thing. Nobody did a damn thing.” He sighs, “I remember storming into his office above the stands after the inauguration speech. He was just standing there, staring out the window, watching as the city turned on the ghouls. He didn’t even look at me.” His voice suddenly turns somber as he picks up a needle with Med-X, pushing down slightly on the depressor until a hint of liquid beaded at the tip to remove any threat of air. “Just said: I did it, John. It’s finally mine.”

There’s silence, between the two, as Hancock gives Sole’s arm one last little flick where the vein is. He holds him still, and sinks the needle in. Sole hisses, tries not to shiver, and watches the liquid smoothly leave the syringe as it goes in; he pulls it right out, just as smooth.

“So, your name was John before the costume incident?”

Hancock smiles, “Heh. No. I figured, first thing about being a ghoul, almost everyone remakes themselves. Names themselves. Figuratively shedding of the skin with the literal, and all that horse shit.”

Sole can still feel the presence of Hancock’s hand on his arm. Feels the weight of his dog tags around his neck, where the name Nate is stamped on the metal. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Hancock shakes his head. “Yeah, well… after all that. Didn’t want to be associated with him anymore. I should have killed him right there, but I don’t think it would have changed anything. Instead I pleaded with him, begged him to call it off.” He turns his gaze to Sole, his voice lilting, mocking, “He said he couldn’t. He had nothing against the ghouls. He was just carrying out the will of the people. And he couldn’t betray the voters.”

Hancock sets the needle aside with a little too much force, exhaling through the ruined remains of his nose. “At the time, I just needed to get away from him. Him and that whole goddamned city.”

Sole leans back against the couch, looking at the ghoul at his side, the way his jaw is set. He’s never seen Hancock like this; even when he’s caught with occasionally over-sticky fingers, he’s disapproving, but not like this. Angry, disappointed, and very raw.

“I felt like I was the only one who saw how screwed up things truly were, who couldn’t just pretend things were fine. Still feel that way…” Hancock pauses, levels his gaze. “Or I did. Until I met you.”

Sole feels a humble wave of bashfulness crash over his, the tips of his ears heating up. “Hey, it’s… it’s nothing, really.”  
Hancock shrugs. “But it is. You don’t have to help people. This isn’t really your world, is it? You have your own problems to deal with.”

Hancock looks like how he remembers the flowers in the window sills in Sanctuary used to be; suddenly turning his head one day when getting the morning paper, and noticing them in vivacious full bloom. He had been looking for Shaun for so long in this vast brown wasteland. He looks—a little split open, the petals bent back to snapping off, but he hides it well behind a steady tone and that constant, gentle smile. “It’s meant a lot to me. I feel damn lucky to have you as a friend.” He swipes a spot of blood that’s dribbled from the needle entry with the pad of his thumb, his fingers still curled around Sole’s bicep.

Sole murmurs something quiet again, swayed to abnormal silence from the raw display of affection and the Med-x starting to slowly seep into his stream of consciousness. He’s… actually moved, almost feels shy. And it’s true, he hasn’t felt this close to someone since his squadmates back in Anchorage, since Nora.

He doesn’t know what to say, fiddling with the too tight belt around his arm, trying to take it off one-handed. But he is not, true to his nature, shy. He is a little brash, a little crass, and the words tumble from his lips before he truly thinks over the connotations: “And that’s what we are? Friends?”

Hancock chuckles, shooting Sole a look with brows raised. “Well, now that you mention it—“ Hancock leans in, gently undoing the belt around Sole’s arm. His knuckles brush against his skin. “I have been having slightly more impure thoughts than usual.” 

He loops the belt out, pulls it away from his arm, his voice going a little low, a tinge husky: “Maybe we’ll get to… act on those. Heh.”

Sole licks his lips, and laughs, along with Hancock’s throaty chuckle, but it’s as if he doesn’t get the joke. Hancock is already sliding away from him on the couch, reaching for his own needle on the side table. Sole watches him openly, as his face is turned away to prepare his own needle; he watches the way concentration furrows his brow, the way the tip of his pink tongue darts out and is caught between his front teeth.

The Med-X is soaking into his mind, making him hot and spacious, his thoughts ebbing, flowing, and throbbing outward. Sole swallows drily. He sinks back. Closes his eyes. Drifts off.

A week later, they finally loop around the commonwealth far enough to make it back to the Red Rocket gas station. Not far enough to go to Sanctuary, where there are things to be built and time to be guilted out from under his nose. But just far enough. He’s built a fence around the whole place, tripwires and mines and a turret.

It’s not home. (That’s gone.) But it’s somewhere safe, somewhere that Sole doesn’t wake up sweating and expecting a burst of cold wind and the sounds of shouted Mandarin ringing his ears awake. They settle in and separate. Hancock pops two mentats and spends his free time at the chemistry station Sole found and dusted off, tinkering and cursing.

Sole’s finally torn away from the dog-eared pages of his magazine when he hears glass breaking. Hancock knows what he’s doing, and Sole’s no science type and he can see the stress outlined in his shoulders. He had left the historical coat in Goodneighbor; joked that, in a pinch, Daisy could tuck all her hair into the old hat and pretend she was him, not a single smoothskin would know the difference. He traded it for sturdier shoulder pads and leathers. Now, stripped out of any road-worthy gear for the night, it was just a simple t-shirt and pants, and Sole can see how thin the man is, swimming in the pre-war fit of the shirt.

There’s something pulling him to take his hand to his waist, watch the fabric billow and bend under his hand until he touched something solid. He wonders if his body is as warm as his lips. (Because they’ve never talked about that night; they’re old hands at using, know substances make your inhibitions slip-slide around in ways it normally wouldn’t.)

Sole stands in the doorway, watching him, (the hunched, tense line of his shoulders, the exposed vertebrae of his neck.) drink in hand and bracing himself on the door frame. His stance is relaxed, but deliberate. Holds his beer bottle loose by the neck, even if it’s already past room temperature, stares at it (and him) for a while before saying anything.

“Hey.”

Hancock’s shoulders slacken. He glances over his shoulder momentarily, to recognize his presence, flashing a grin. “Hey, my favorite former ice pop.”

A grin threatens his calm façade, and though Hancock has already turned back to his work he ducks his head a little to hide it. It has been a long time since he’s done this, tried to flirt with someone, tried to hook up. He’s not going to think about Nora, and her dark hair and dark eyes, and the yawning ache she’s left behind in his gut, missing human touch and kindness and tender touches.

They’re friends. Friends with undeniable charisma and chemistry and—it was bound to happen, and he was given a pass, the week before. And still, with the clear pass, and still Sole’s waited a week and three beers to act. A younger him would have had no trouble finding the right words. (A younger him would probably be doing this in college, or on base, with all of the cultural strappings and roadwork of the time to aid him.)

He shifts from one foot to the other, rubs at his mouth. “Yep,” He sucks on his tongue momentarily, tasting the flavor of beer that’s just edging on skunked, suddenly at loss for words. “That’s me.”

Hancock stops what he’s doing, at that, sets his flask down carefully and turns around. He leans back against the workbench, bracing himself with his hands on the edge, smiles; he always looks easy, so assured. His skin is too pockmarked and leathery for track marks but Sole’s sure, in the bent crook of his elbow supporting his lazed stance he could find them with his fingers, his tongue. Hancock raises an eyebrow. “You look tense. You need anything?” The low light of the room reflects in his inky eyes.

Sole steps forward, trying to run through his mind what drugs Hancock carries regularly that won’t make him flaccid combined with alcohol. “Uh, yeah.” Hancock turns his back to Sole, chuckling and rummaging through the cabinets he’s filled.

“I’m a little low—“ He opens the first cabinet, pulls out a bottle of what looks like buffout and shakes it to assuage its contents. “We should stop by Goodneighbor next time we’re in the city.”

Hancock grabs two pre-loaded spring needles of Med-X. The good pre-war stuff, not the shit people have emptied out in old bottles of insulin and cut with god knows what to sell in ‘bulk’ to junkies with dirty, empty needles. He’s never been cheap or stingy with his chems. “Now, I say, it’s a quiet night. Let’s just enjoy ourselves with a little Med-x, something nice and mellow.”

Sole wets his lips, and finally takes that last step in, closing the gap between friendly and too close. It’s a minute change, but Hancock stills, ever so slightly. His hand hovers, momentarily, before settling on his waist. He feels him jump before his hand has even fully settled, warm and heavy, and then immediately still. “Well, I was thinking, we could do something else.”

Hancock doesn’t turn around. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Sole can feel him move underneath his hand, and it feels good, just to feel another human body. He could probably just be satisfied with a hand on his waist for at least an hour, just to have human touch again that wasn’t biting, scratching, fighting, bleeding.

“How drunk are you?” Hancock asks, almost sounds amused.

“I’m buzzed,” Sole admits, swallows drily.

Hancock turns around, in a way that doesn’t shrug off Sole’s heavy hand. He leans back against the work bench, looks up at him. It’s hard to read his face in the dim light; the shadows reflects the craters of his face, where the skin has peeled back to reveal muscle, the deep hollow of his nose, the darkness underneath his eyes. And yet, he’s handsome, monstrous as he is. He looks good when he smiles and the amount of presence he holds is staggering, like he does now, the easy look on his face, the tilt of his head. Sole feels like it’s high school all over again and he’s trying to make his move on the football quarterback with the blue eyes, so nervous and hormonal his palms were swamplands. Maybe it’s not that far-off from pre-war, in that respect. He was never good at this part, (but was anyone--) trying to read those last few moments before he made a move.

So he doesn’t think. He just does.

He leans in, and in those few seconds between contact and not, Hancock acquiesces, lets him in. Sole tilts his head to kiss him, captures his lips just a little too hard, a little too eager. And yeah, it’s everything it was when they were on jet, the same burning warmth, and he dips his tongue in to taste the chalky aftertaste of mentats, the very slight prickle-burn of radiation, another taste under it all that’s decidedly very human. He presses his body against Hancock’s, sliding his hand up to hold his cheek, his thumb rubbing against the high cheekbone.

Hancock’s the one to pull away, and Sole’s so distracted he almost kisses air before he realizes what the other is doing, like a dog snapping its teeth just shy of its prize. “You’re real good-lookin’, you know.” Hancock rasps. There’s color in his face, mouth a little wet. He presses a hand to his chest, loops another arm around his neck. “Actually—you do know, don’t you?”

Sole swallows, and he can hear it. He doesn’t reply, just clears his throat. The hand on the back of his neck is rough, rubbing the skin there, the wiry hairs that just poke out over the collar of his shirt. “So why,” As his one hand slides up his chest, his fingers dip below his shirt, underneath the delicate ball chain around his neck and they pull it up and back in one fluid motion. The dog tags and wedding ring clang noisily against each other before they hit the hollow of his throat; Hancock’s holding it just firm enough that he has to tilt his head back to keep it from being uncomfortable and choking, the bared soft skin of his throat showcasing the two metals. “Is a smoothskin like you trying to sleep with a ghoul like me?”

When he swallows, he can feel his adam’s apple rub against the warm metals of the dog tags and his wife’s ring, warmed from his constant body heat. “Didn’t know you were so self-conscious, Hancock.”

Hancock laughs. “I’m not. But you’re pre-war. It don’t make sense.” When he grins, it almost looks dangerous, and Sole’s reminded of the way Hancock stabbed that man, his knife sliding in to the hilt, again and again. “I don’t usually go for first-timers and I’m not the type to enjoy hands-off quickie in the dark so some asshole can get his rocks off.”

Sole tilts his head down, just enough to meet Hancock’s eyes, the dog tags cutting into his windpipe. “I’ve slept with men before.”

Hancock looks at him like he’s said something very dumb, clarifying: “First time with a ghoul.”

There’s a pregnant pause. Because—he’s right, Sole knows, he doesn’t know what he’s getting into. He’s seen the back of Hancock’s neck, he’s seen his lower back when he pulls his pants down far enough to go piss somewhere in the waist because they can’t find a damn pair of pants where the zipper works. (But what’s in his pants is another story altogether.) Knows all the skin’s gone away and what’s left has been tanned like leather in irradiated hellfire, knows there’s bone and muscle and sinew.

Even with the unknown smirking up at him, holding his necklace like a noose around his neck, Sole leans in. Hancock’s kiss is brutal as he surges up, letting go of his necklace. When the tags (and the ring) thump limply against his chest it’s like something cracks, between them, Sole wrapping his arms around Hancock and nearly spilling the Gwinnet Stout still in his hand down his back as the ghoul presses his body against him. He barely manages to place the bottle down, wobbling dangerously back and forth, before Hancock is pushing him back with ferocious kisses towards the doorway, towards the bedroom.

The speech aside, Hancock is hungry; his hands are already rucking up the Sole Survivor’s shirt, steady hands—good, steady, experienced hands. Sole is meeting him with his own movements, but he knows he’s slower, less experienced with touching the unfamiliar. It’s strange because he can feel himself—cracking, in a way, overwhelmed. Sole’s always been physical, bumping shoulders with soldiers and bear hugging friends and holding his wife’s hand. He knows the desperation is oozing out of him, every jerky movement betraying how much he wants—

Hancock gives him a small push and Sole sits heavily on the bed, springs squeaking under his weight. He sits backs, legs hanging over the bed and spread wide; he runs his hands down his thighs, smooths his pant leg.

Hancock watches; he’s smirking, always smirking. “You really want this, huhn?” There’s some mirth in that statement, but no incredulity. With one hand on the hem of his shirt he pulls it up, and over his head in one fluid movement.

Sole is reaching for him as soon as he’s bare, fingers brushing against his jutting hip bones, his eyes drinking him in. He is thin. (And he doesn’t want to think, _skeletal_ , because even in the privacy of his own head it feels rude, because his face is full and not sharp, but his body is so thin.) This is the most bare he’s seen him, his long and lean arms, knotty with muscle, the taper of his waist.

“Yeah,” Sole presses his lips to Hancock’s chest, pulls him in so his legs hit the side of the bed. He has no sign of body hair, no prickle when he runs his lips over the skin—and, with some amusement, notes he even lacks nipples. It’s like leather, cracked and frayed, hard at points and worked smooth in others. “If you don’t quit askin’ I might stop though.” Sole counters, starting to undo his belt.

Hancock grunts his response, settling a warm hand on Sole’s scalp. He is deft with the belt, his pants; and when he’s about to tug them down (though the lack of waist and hips on Hancock combined with gravity is doing most of the work for him) he pauses.

If he notices the slight apprehension, Hancock doesn’t mention it; he cups the back of his head with his hand, rubs the peach fuzz under his thumb. Sole exhales and pulls his pants the rest of the way down, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find an erect cock bouncing out; cut, average, and when he wraps his fingers around him, though the texture of the skin feels a little rougher, a little harder, it’s most definitely human.

“Huh.” Sole leans in, strokes him a few times. Hancock sounds good when he exhales like that, short and eager. “Ghoul dick.”

Hancock seems to still, the shock much too evident on his face; and then recognition washes over him, and he barks out a laugh that turns strangled as Sole’s tongue flicks out over the head of his cock, his hand stroking up to meet his mouth. “Still haven’t gotten to compare yet.”

“Soon.” Sole replies, licking the entirety of his length, mouthing the head; Hancock makes the kind of noise a man makes when he’s struggling not to sound out, and when Sole looks up, he meets his eyes and raises his eyebrows. Sole sinks down, engulfs his length entirely, only jerking back a little when Hancock’s hips spasm forward of their own will.

Hancock wishes the Sole Survivor had hair, or something to grab onto; he sucks his dick like he’s trying to suck his life out from him, and while he’s none to gentle it’s _good_ like that. One of the sad realities of being ghoulfied was that some things just lost their sensitivity; but Sole hollows his cheeks, pulls up to whorl his tongue around his head like some lurid lollipop, and sure as hell Hancock can feel that.

“You’re—way too good at this. You’ve had some practice, huhn?”

Sole hums out his irritation, and Hancock groans at the vibration, laughs.

“Nnn—yeah, that so? With the Silver Shroud? That’s messed up.”

Sole’s eyes crease with amusement. It’s been too long; and hell, he’s glad that it was with Hancock, if anyone, because only Hancock could make sex feel so damn friendly, so damn easy, like they’d been doing this for years. And if he didn’t have a dick in his mouth he’d retort and shake his head; instead, his mouth is busy speeding up the pace, his hand jerking where his lips don’t touch. His other hand settles on the back of Hancock’s thighs, squeezes at his ass.

Sole pulls back, a trail of saliva connecting his lip to the head of Hancock’s cock. His finger is wet and warmed, just tracing slow circles, teasing at his entrance. “This okay..?” He doesn’t have to ask; Hancock is already nodding, massaging the base of his skull with firm fingers, sounding out long and quiet and slow as Sole eases his finger in. The warm wet mouth on his cock is a wonderful counterpoint to the dull stretch and burn. His hand smooths down the back of his head, his neck, rubbing at the tendons there.

He pulls off his cock, almost a little too rough, and Sole surges up and captures Hancock’s lips, kisses him desperate and a little feral. Hancock meets it in stride, matches each ferocious kiss, explores his open mouth with his tongue and breathless chuckles.

They are point and counterpoint; their hands bump out of newness, but redirect, find their way; Hancock tugs Sole’s shirt off, presses their bodies together, shucks the other man’s pants off with more might than his thin arms speak of. Even though it’s fast, Hancock makes a show of it, raising his brow, drags blunt fingernails down his chest and the slight lines pointing down to his groin. “Not bad… not bad.”

“Hey,” Sole grunts, wraps his hand around Hancock’s spit-slick cock, gives him a few pumps; the ghoul grabs him, mirroring his movements. Sole’s so hard and touch-starved he nearly chokes on his tongue. “You can’t—after all that. Just _not bad_.”

“Not bad. My only grade for now.” Hancock quips, grin widening as his wrist twists and Sole nearly liquefies under the touch, his forehead falling to his shoulder, slightly damp with sweat. He can feel his hot breath on his collar bone, coming out in staccato bursts. If this keeps up, he’s going to be coming soon.

Hancock puts a hand to his chest, halting. “Lube. Do we have lube?”

Sole blinks. And then, recognition falls like radioactive thunder around his ears. “Hell— hell yeah, somewhere—“

He nearly falls off the bed in his haste, tripping over their discarded clothes on the floor. Hancock’s snort follows his bare back as he ducks out of the bedroom and into the hallway; he knocks over a magazine rack in his wake, fumbling amongst the cabinets filled with odds and ends. “Is, uh—“ He double checks the expiration date on the faded petroleum jelly tin, walking back into the bedroom, “Is it still good one hundred and ninety years past the expiration date?”

He looks up; Hancock is laying on his back, idly stroking himself. Sole exhales, can’t peel his eyes off of him as he stands by the side of the bed. “You look good,” He says, so quietly it’s like he’s breathing the words. Hancock laughs, throaty and aroused, arches his back as Sole grabs him by the thighs, drags him to the edge and settles between his legs. “You look—“ He’s twisting the lid off the tin in a hurry, slicking his middle and pointer finger with goop, “You look real good.”

“I’m already in your bed,” Hancock teases, watching his hands, exhales as Sole presses his fingers against him. “No need to flatter that much.”

Sole feels his face burn red, a sloppy smile on his face. He murmurs, barely audible, that he can’t help it as he pushes in. Sole has thick fingers, but he’s careful and patient, moves slow and sure, and keeps his other hand stroking Hancock as a counterpoint to the uncomfortable stretch. He’s already used to the one finger with saliva; it doesn’t take long before Sole has him as prepped as he’s going to be, eagerly groping at him, muttering _hurry ups_ and _hell I won’t break_ adoringly against his skin.

Sole pushes him back, gently, and captures Hancock’s chatty lips in one rough, kiss; his other hand pumps his own cock, lazily, smearing any leftover lube over the head.

He nips at his lips once before grabbing Hancock’s hips, making sure he’s on the edge of the bed; the ghoul angles his hips upward, wraps his legs around Sole’s waist and digs his heels into his lower back. He pushes in, slow, slow, and Hancock is unbelievably tight, so tight that Sole swears he might not be able to push in; but he does, to the sound of the ghoul’s ragged breathing, the sharp points of his heels on his back. He bottoms out with a groan, thighs shaking. He wants to—

Hancock rocks his body. Sole sucks in a breath so sharp it could almost be mistaken for pain. He moves.

He’d only met a ghoul for the first time in his life a mere few months before; and now, with Hancock spread out under him, his hands thrown above his head and gripping the edge of the bed, Sole can’t believe the sad state of humanity in the wastes, if people would rather hate on something rather than see _this;_ the way his ribs expand when he sucks in a breath to moan, the exposed ridges of his neck as his head falls back to the pillow, his cut cock bobbing neglected against the flat plane of his stomach—

Sole’s hips snap in; he grabs Hancock, fists his cock hard and fast, keeping in beat with his thrusts. He’s close, so close, just needs that added bit more; he hunches over, presses his forehead to Hancock’s, and he instantly wraps his arms around Sole’s shoulders, presses his lips to the shell of his ear. His voice is gravel warmed in the sun, pure filth, growled _fuck me_ ’s and _harder, harder, harder_ and _God, Sole, you feel so good, you’re perfect_ and when he latches onto his earlobe, Sole tips over; breath catching in his throat, hips stuttering, and when he groans Hancock’s name and squeezes his shaft he follows not far after.

Sole realizes he’s probably crushing Hancock when the beeps the turrets are sounding outside are longer than the shallow rise and fall of his chest or the slight whistle of his nose; he groans, gingerly easing himself out of Hancock before falling halfway on top and behind the ghoul.

Hancock cracks opens an eye, gently shakes Sole’s shoulder. “Hey?”

Sole grunts, turns his face in towards the warmth of Hancock’s neck. He doesn’t want to move. Wants to lie here, for as long as he was able—all night, if he could. He won’t admit, even to himself, how much he’s missed a body in his bed. “Give me… give me a moment. I’ll let you have your bed back.”

Hancock snorts. “No, I’m not kicking you out. Listen, you can warm my bed long as you like. I just wanted you to get off my arm.” He paused, “I mean, as long as you’re getting up, though, you can grab the Med-X.”

Sole laughs, and it’s muffled by Hancock’s neck. He is good. This is good. He likes this. (Could really get used to this, a mutually beneficial relationship of covering each other’s asses, drugs and sex.) He rolls over, blearily looking over at Hancock. The ghoul grins back, eyes heavy lidded. “Pretty please? With Jet crystals and a line of mentats on top?”

Sole rolls his eyes, dramatically flopping his body up and over Hancock, and then standing on wobbly legs. “Fine. God, you’re needy. First sex, then all of these free drugs…”

Hancock’s laughter follows him into the main hall. “The drugs are free. The sex, however, ain’t cheap.”

“Shit.” Sole raises his eyebrows at nobody in particular, grabbing the med-x from the chem station. “Well, I think I have five caps under the bed somewhere.”

When he enters the bedroom, Hancock is sitting halfway up, a hand pressed against his sternum in mock flustered dramatics. “Five caps? For the mayor of Goodneighbor?”

“Fine. Ten caps, and next time we take Day Tripper you can have the bigger tab.” He eases back into the bed, and Hancock wastes no time in tangling himself up with Sole.

He nimbly snatches one needle from him before straddling his waist. Sole looks up at him, what semblance of covers they had somewhere near his feet. "Alright," Hancock uncaps the syringe with his teeth. "Deal."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my life blood even though I'm really very bad at replying to them... If you like fallout check out my tumblr civilization-illstayrighthere where I post even shittier writing and yell at the prydwen


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